The Angel Chronicles
by Save the Rave
Summary: By some miracle, depending on your perspective, Dean and Sam Winchester are given Grace by an order of God, it being bestowed upon them by Castiel who couldn't be any prouder. Sam is stoked. Dean begs to differ. Hijinks, manly tears, and accidental smitings ensue. Castiel holds no responsibility for damages that may occur to personal property. Connected ficlets, occasional Destiel.
1. Grace

**Or, how Dean Winchester was given his wings and didn't accidentally smite everything in a five mile radius in the first five hours. **

When Dean first receives his Grace and the wings that come with it, he has never hated anything so much in his entire existence. They're bulky, they're awkward, and God are they heavy. They weigh him down and it feels like the world is sitting on his shoulders, swinging from his biceps, and wrapped around his legs. They make dressing difficult, they get in the way when he showers, and more than once he nearly suffocates underneath them when he's been sleeping. One day, in a fit of anger, he almost smites all the occupants of the motel he's staying at with Castiel and Sam. But he doesn't. Instead, everyone ends up with nasty migraines and even nastier projectile nosebleeds. Fine and dandy, that was an accident. Castiel told him they would happen as he struggled to get his powers under control.

And then he gets told that, for the first while, he's going to be functioning as a temporary guardian angel for some yuppie stock broker in New York, which is essentially the substitute janitor of heaven.

Suddenly, the next round of migraines and projectile nosebleeds don't seem to be nearly as accidental in nature. And judging by the smirk Dean's wearing when Castiel surveys the damage, it's a little more malicious than excepted.

("Dean, I apologize for the _inconvenience_, but God has commanded it. You and Sam are to be given Grace and made part of our family.")

("Yeah? Well God needs to stop commanding things to make time to go _screw himself_!")

Sam, however, fares far better than his brother upon receiving Grace. He's thrilled like a little kid at Christmas, and says to Dean one evening over supper, an old habit that dies hard, that this - this Grace, these wings - was God's way of accepting his countless apologies, of forgiving him of every sin, intentional and accidental alike, right from when he was six-months-old until now. These wings mean redemption, and he's going to do everything he is capable of possibly doing to make sure he never falls out of favour. Sam's going to be the perfect Soldier of the Lord and he's never been prouder. It shows in the way he stretches his wings, how he walks with his back a little straighter, his shoulders a little tighter. The way he smiles a little freer and his eyes make him look so much more alive for a change, like breathing is easy, and thinking easier. _These wings, _said Sam one night, _have made me a new person, Dean. I'm gonna do good things with these wings, man, I just know it. _

Dean thinks Sam is just a tad bit too excited about the whole thing, which is an ordeal in his opinion, and needs to stop acting like a little boy who just discovered what it is that makes him a little boy, and that he needs to stop whipping it out and swinging it around.

(But what Dean won't admit is that, as much as he hates the wings, he is warmed from the inside-out to have been given Grace. Because, like Sam, Dean feels as though he has been forgiven, and that's all he has ever truly wanted.)

* * *

Hello, ladies and gents! This here is going to be a collection of ficlets, all surrounding Dean and Sam having been given their Grace. This is post Purgatory, so there might be some flashback Purgatory fic every now and again. There's gonna be some romantic stuff every now and again, because mmm Destiel yes good. These ficlets will be encompassing all kinds of genres, because just one genre isn't exciting enough.

Also, if there's any kind of scenario anyone wants to see, feel free to let me know! I have a bunch of ideas for ficlets, but I love hearing what other people think c:

Thanks for reading, and I hope you all enjoy the rest.


	2. Resurrection

**Or, how Dean Winchester set aside his personal skepticism and picked up something a little more angelic along the way.**

"There are, as you both are aware of, many things angels are capable of. Many of which are miracles, perhaps the thing we are most known for, as well as coming to people in their dreams to pass along personal prophecies, but that is generally reserved for archangels, although we, too, are capable of it. These things, and far more than just that, are now extended to the both of you, as well. You are, however, too young, figuratively speaking, to properly understand and grasp these concepts. You know they exist for you have both seen them in action, have been the receiving end-"

Sam snorts.

Dean wordlessly elbows him in the side, cheeks going red, but managing to keep his face expressionless.

Castiel clears his throat, looking a little red-faced as well because he actually caught that reference for a change, wishing he hadn't, and gestures with his head as if to say 'might I continue now, children?'

The brothers duck their heads in unison and Castiel, with a sigh, resumes: "You have both _bore witness _to the powers, both destructive and healing, of my brothers and sisters, as well as my own. As I said, you two are essentially toddlers with wings, and for the most part, your powers remain untamed and God has set it upon me to train you in actually using these powers for good and not accidentally smiting everyone in a five mile radius when one does not get their way."

Arms folded over his chest, Dean mutters a hasty apology, quite possibly the ten thousandth one since that particular incident, while Sam snorts again, edging to the side quickly enough to narrowly avoid another elbow to the ribs (later, when he's changing his shirt, he'll find a small lump there covered by a nasty smattering of bruises. Another thing they have yet to learn: how to actually control the strength that came with their Grace. It's not an easy task, then again, none of it is). Cas rolls his eyes and prays for patience, but he regrets it almost immediately because he remembers that Sam and Dean can hear the prayers of others now, too, and they both lay equally dirty looks upon him.

"So, because I'm just that lucky," says Castiel, a small smirk on his face (although his eyes are warm and excited and oh so proud of the men before him, betraying how he really feels), "I am going to show you how to harness what is perhaps one of the most important powers you are in possession of."

And for a moment, Castiel flickers in and out of sight, leaving Sam and Dean alone in the middle of the field they have driven to, to wonder what the hell it is exactly they are about to learn. When Castiel returns, he has two dead wolves in tow, one slung over either shoulder. He places the carcasses upon the ground, one at either man's feet. Then, as though he are proud of himself and the boon he has returned with, Castiel places his hands upon his hips and takes a few steps back, looking at Sam and Dean expectantly.

"Dude, what the hell did you do?" demands Sam, eyes growing wider the longer he stares at the wolf at his feet. He crouches down and reaches out to touch the creature, but stops and looks back up to Cas. "Did you … did you kill them _yourself_?"

Castiel shrugs. "If you want the creature to come back so badly, place a hand upon its forehead and bring it back yourself. You need to concentrate on the living, you must focus and be wary all at the same time. You can do it."

Sam licks his lips and stares questioningly at him for a moment. Then, it seems like realization dawns on him because his eyes go globular and he settles back on his haunches, and the smile that curves his lips is one unlike any other Dean has seen his brother wear before. "You … you mean …"

"Stop asking questions and just _try_ it," commands Castiel gently.

And so he does. Sam takes his trembling hand and lays it flat on the top of the wolf's skull, palm pressing against its forehead. For a moment, nothing happens. Moments turn into minutes. Or maybe they are still just seconds, but the anticipation is killing them all. Disappointment is beginning to creep into Sam's expression, dragging that smile downwards and making his shoulders slump. Even his wings droop a little.

Then the wolf shudders to life with a yowl, looking bewildered, amber eyes wide and its ears perked. The beast trembles all over. It stares at Sam for a long time before struggling back to its feet. The creature looks around, takes a few staggering steps like a drunkard who's still feeling last night's party the next morning, and then sits in the grass, continuing to stare at Sam as though he is the most fascinating object in the world at that very moment.

"Dude, oh my God, did you see that, Dean? Did you see what I just did? Oh, my _God._" Sam's on his feet and is grabbing Dean by the shoulders, giving him a brief shake. His eyes are impossibly wide once more and he's bouncing on the balls of his feet, looking from the wolf that seems to be waiting around for something and then back to his brother. "I just brought something _back from the dead._"

"Hell, and you didn't even have to sell your soul to do it," mutters Dean, a small smirk at the corner of his mouth. "I'm impressed."

Sam's face falls for a brief moment and he shakes his head. "Dude, you are such a happiness-killer."

Dean shrugs. "It's what I do; you should know that by now."

Castiel looks as though he is about to argue that point, the way his eyes soften at the corners but in how his mouth turns into a thin, grim line. He begs to differ because Dean has done anything but, especially when it comes to him, to them. But he doesn't say anything and, instead, he gestures to the second carcass, presumably the reason the wolf is still hanging around.

"Your turn, Dean."

He snorts and takes a step back, shaking his head. "Dude, there's no way I'm going to be able to do that. You and I both know it."

A crestfallen look crosses Castiel's face before it is replaced with a look of bland indifference and he takes a step forward, then another, until he's stood in front of the eldest Winchester. He places his hand on Dean's forearm, drawing circles on the material of his jacket with the pad of his thumb for a small fraction in time, and then he shakes his head. "You _can, _Dean," he says. "You have the power to do so, we all do. So there is no reason you would not."

(_Have some faith, Dean Winchester, it'll take you places._)

Upon hearing the voice, Dean freezes, eyes going wide. He stutters and shifts nervously, moving back a step and then two forward, Castiel's hand falling from his arm. "Did … did either of you hear that?"

Sam and Castiel exchange confused, slightly worried glances, as though prior to now they had doubted Dean's state of mind. Sometimes Dean doubted it himself, but honestly, anyone who was in the business was generally lacking a few nuts and bolts. They had to be, all things considered. But Dean knew he heard that voice. Soft but firm, guiding him in the right direction, like a father would. Like a father. A shiver runs through Dean and he stands up a little straighter, squaring his shoulders as his wings involuntarily spread for a moment before folding flat against his back once more. Sam and Cas are watching him closely, and even Cas seems surprised when Dean stoops down beside the dead wolf. The living one beside it gives a low, mournful whine in the back of its throat.

(_They were mates once, Dean. Have been for a long time. Don't make her go back alone._)

"I won't, Sir."

The whispered words leave him before he even acknowledges that he's speaking, but he's not about to argue it. Those were orders of a nature he hadn't dealt with for some time. A father ordering his son, his new unruly child. Nodding, Dean tilts his head a little and stares at the female who is now lying beside the other animal. She looks sad, in that kind of lost puppy dog way, even though she's all teeth and claws when she needs to be. Dean reaches out and scratches behind the wolf's ears. And then he looks to the deceased and he nods his head again, wiping his hand down over his face as he shifts to settle on his knees in the dirt and grass.

"Alright," he mutters. "I'll do it, but it better work."

And so he places his hand on top of the wolf's head, palm against its forehead, and a moment later, the wolf lets out a weird noise that is a cross between a howl and a bark.

He doesn't notice anything that happens after that, because the feeling that fills him is so warm, so pure, that he doesn't know what to do with himself. His wings twitch against his back - _that's right, kid, this is what we're supposed to be doing. You're a goddamn angel now, so start acting like one - _and Dean lets out a bark of laughter. There are tears in his eyes and then there are two wet noses in his face, greeting him, sniffing at his skin. Not even thinking, he throws his arms around the wolves and buries his face in the fur of the one he brought back - the one he resurrected. It smells musty and damp, like the forest the wolf came from. Dean feels a tongue on his cheek and he pulls away with a laugh. God, he feels like he's going to bawl his eyes out with pure happiness. When he lets go of the wolves, they turn tail and lope away, leaving one angel sat smiling in the dirt, and two others stood on either side of him, a proud brother and an even prouder partner.

Placing his hand up Dean's shoulder, Castiel smiles and squeezes. "Well done, Dean."

"You did that so fast. Man, that was wicked," Sam says. "What are you, some kind of natural?"

The warmth has yet to leave him and he feels it right down to the marrow in his bones, like he's sunk down into a warm bath. It's the greatest feeling in the world and he never wants to be without it, not anymore. Maybe everything in his life really had lead to this moment, every bit of shit he ever went through; maybe all of it had been a test, like Cas had told him and Sam. Tests to make sure they would be worthy of their Grace. He feels Cas' fingertips briefly brush against the corner of his jaw, affectionately and reverently. Dean shuts his eyes, smiles and gives a shaky exhale. When he opens his eyes, the world seems new.

Yeah, maybe it really is the start of something.


	3. Envy

**In which Dean Winchester learns that sometimes being an angel, thus being unseen by the majority of the population, has its perks, regardless of how mad it might make Castiel. **

**Because Cas will get over it.**

**Eventually.**

The brothers are sat on a bench in Central Park. The day's a hot one and there are waves of heat rising from the pavement, making the trees and people in the distance look more like a mirage than anything. It's the middle of July and a heat wave has been hanging over the majority of the East Coast for the past few weeks. It doesn't bother Dean or Sam, though, and they're lounging like the denim-clad nightmares they are, wings folded against their backs. Dean shifts occasionally because he keeps sitting on his and breaking off feathers. The bottoms of his wings look like they've been caught in a paper shredder and Sam just smirks, shaking his head. He doesn't know which looks more unkempt: his brother, or his brother's wings.

(A kid runs by them, stops, and picks up a feather off the ground, then starts running again to catch up with his babysitter, wondering aloud about what kind of bird lost a feather so big, so pretty.)

("My wings aren't _pretty_," splutters Dean. "My wings are _manly!_ Piss off, y'little shit!")

Sam doesn't know why they're in New York, but honestly, it doesn't matter. Today is just a blip on the radar of eternity, and they have all the time in the world to cruise the open road. Time to kill and then some. People watching is just one way they spend their time now, because it provides both an entertaining way to spend the afternoon, and also a chance for them to reflect and think about the lives they once led and the lives they now lead. The Impala is parked a few blocks away, sitting pretty amongst the BMWs and Buicks and Mercedes, and Dean thinks his Baby looks better than any of those yuppies' vehicles, can go faster and ride harder than each and every last one of them. She has more stories to tell than anyone else, and if she could talk, boy, she'd be a proper motor mouth.

So the brothers sit in silence, watching the world pass them by, unseen and unheard when they do make the scattered comment. Nonentities who saved the world a handful of times and who were now, finally, reaping the benefits of it.

And that's when _she _walks by. All long, tanned legs made longer by five-inch stilettos, a Gucci bag at her hip and Prada sunglasses on the bridge of her nose. Dean wants to say her eyes are blue beneath those mirror lenses, but Sam takes one look at her and immediately decides brown. Her dress and blonde hair, pinup girl curls and a white baby doll, makes them both think she's channelling her own version of an inner Marilyn Monroe, a beauty every woman had lurking in her, somewhere deep within. Dean was long a firm believer of it, and Sam found he was starting to accept it, too.

Dean's jaw plummets and he lets out an audible noise of pure _want_ and Sam literally places two fingers beneath it and pushes it up, telling him to ease off tiger, that she's way out of his league. But that doesn't stop him from looking, too.

"Dude, I'm an _angel_, not a _monk,_" grunts Dean, leaning forward and watching as she approaches. Thank God they were hidden from the eyes of the humans in the park. Then, he smirks wickedly. "Hey, hey Sammy."

Sam's face falls. "Dean, _no. _You'll get in shit, man. Cas'll rip your head off and shit down your throat if you even try what I think you're gonna do."

Licking his lips as the woman saunters on by, realizing the opportunity he longs to seize is passing him by, Dean decides that now would be a good time to stop caring. There were things in this world scarier than the wrath of a jealous Castiel, and frankly, he has already faced most of them. Including said jealous Castiel. Bring it on, angel boy. Do you worst. "I'm gonna do it, man."

"Dean, don't you _dare_."

"_I'm doin' it!_"

"Dean, _NO-_"

He extends his hand, flicks his wrist, and a sudden breeze comes barrelling through the park, a gust strong enough to blow the woman's dress up around her hips. It came with a lovely view, and Dean wolf-whistles, clapping his hands. "Worth every penny!" Dean declares. "Take me now, Lord, sue my ass back to Purgatory!"

"_Don't tempt me_."

Dean and Sam whip around to face the hiss from behind them, only to find a smouldering Castiel behind them, the grass beneath his feet wilting and turning a little browner each moment he is stood there. It's the angriest the boys have seen the angel in a long time, and even Dean shrinks a little beneath the look he receives (a look that means every carton of milk in the state of New York, and a small portion of the surrounding states, curdled at the exact same time, including what was still in the cows. A modern tragedy). He feels his wings tremble a little, but stands strong.

Sort of.

(A lover scorned is a terrifying thing, especially when that scorned lover can hit you with such a whammy that it would send you all the way back to Kansas singing 'Sweet Home Alabama' and yearning to go to a Little League game where the team coach has a bad case of Herpes and the home team advantage doesn't even _exist_.)

"I swear, Dean, you have to stop abusing your powers like this," snaps Castiel. He's red in the face and something flickers in his eyes, something other than the pure anger he surely feels. Envy. Anxiety. It's a lot of emotions for an angel who didn't entirely understand them. And there's something _possessive _lurking in those cerulean depths, and Dean feels a warming sensation in his gut. Oh, he would pay for this later, and Dean almost anticipates the retribution he will have to face.

"Or what?"

A challenge. Dean smirks.

"Or your Grace can be taken from you, and you will find yourself a dead man and trapped in the Pit."

Dean swallows thickly. It was not the answer he had anticipated, and definitely the last one he wants to hear. Talk about a puncture in the zeppelin. "Thanks for ruining the fun, asshat," he mutters. "You guys really _are _humourless sacks of shit sometimes, y'know that?"

Sam pinches his lips together. "I tried to tell him it was a bad idea. But nobody likes to listen to Sam Winchester when he has something to say, especially when that person is Dean Winchester. Right? Of course I am."

And then Sam doubles over with a pained grunt, arms wrapped around his gut and his face scrunched up. The corner of Castiel's mouth twitches for a brief moment before the look of stony seriousness returns to his face.

Dean marks that down as a score for the home team and lounges back on the bench, shifting because he's sitting on his goddamn wings again, and gives Cas a lascivious wink, revelling in the way the angel's feathers ruffle and how he looks away, smoothing the front of his trench coat.

Sometimes, being an angel really ain't that bad.

(This happens to be one of those times.)


	4. Confession

**In which Sam Winchester bears witness to the confessions of a loving murderer and finds himself emphasizing in ways he really doesn't want to. **

Every now and then Sam and Dean split up, and they wander. They don't do it very often because, regardless of what's been bestowed upon them and the things they now have at their disposal, they still feel safer when it's the both of them. Security in numbers, and when they have each other's back, they have that feeling in spades. But, every once in a while, they part ways for a day or three and they roam. Deserted islands, busy cities. Continent to continent, and within the first month of receiving their Grace, Sam and Dean have set foot on the soil of all seven. Wings, albeit they are somewhat for decoration, take them places they would never be able to access otherwise. They go wherever they want to because angels don't know borders and they definitely don't need passports or clearance. Frequent flier miles are a thing of the past, but Dean's pretty bummed that he never got to be a part of the Mile High Club.

Right now, Sam's pretty sure that Dean is somewhere in Asia, doing things he probably shouldn't be doing and things that Castiel would more than likely bawl him out for later. Dean does it all for the shits and giggles though, and there's no real meaning behind any of it, not anymore. Castiel knows this but sometimes, every now and again, he gets a bit edgy. It's understandable; Dean's still quite the ladies' man.

(Sam finds their relationship a funny thing, but it's not a fickle thing at all. It amazes him how real their feelings are for each other, how strong their relationship is. Maybe Purgatory had something to do with it. Sam would have never thought, not in a million years, that Dean and Cas' 'profound bound' had a foundation that was so concrete, so secure, that it would amount into something so pure and steadfast. But that's mainly because they're the most dysfunctional individuals he has ever had the pleasure of knowing, so a functional relationship wasn't something he attributed to either of them.)

As for Sam Winchester, he's sat in some small town in America, he doesn't know what state it is because he stopped paying attention some time ago. There's a church and, the moment he drives into town, he feels drawn to it. There's someone there, someone who needs to make a confession, someone carrying a load so heavy on his shoulders that it's weighing him down and drowning him on the way. It's the first time Sam has done this, because the other three instances were caught by Dean, and the fourth had been handled by Castiel. That man has a heart of gold, more than what either of the Winchesters have ever realized until now. Castiel is practically selfless in his actions sometimes.

Sam parks the Impala a few streets away from the church, the road vacant and not a soul in sight. The town is nearly empty, its previous population estimation dating back to 2000 and now boasting that the town has six-hundred-and-thirteen more people than what it actually does. If its lucky, it has maybe a hundred people. Another place that progress forgot, or didn't care about in the first place.

Walking up the steps, Sam pauses for a moment, reaching over his shoulder to scratch his wing for a moment before ducking, unseen by all, into the church. He takes a breath to steady himself and places a hand over his rollicking insides. Nerves are getting to him, but he needs to do this.

_**Rule #28:**_

_When sitting in on the confessions of an individual, one must remain_

_hidden as to avoid any kind of alteration of the truth. Altercations with_

_a confessing human can result in lost chances at redemption, and the_

_discipline can be severe, up to and including termination of powers for_

_a temporary stretch of time_.

The rules are things to be wary of, because there was someone there to enforce them at all times, whether it was Joshua, from some unseen perch in God's garden, or some other angel they had yet to meet.

In the church, a ramshackle little tabernacle with a few dirty stained-glass windows and a crooked alter, there's only one other person beside Sam Winchester. He's an older man, probably in his fifties or sixties. Like the town, he looks like he's seen hard times, and maybe, given the air that hangs around him like a perverse halo, one that's tarnished and physically decaying, those times seem to have gotten a lot harder. Sam doesn't know what to think for a brief moment, or what to do, but he sits down in the pew across the aisle, hands dangling between his thighs and his face turned upwards to the statue of Christ, post-crucifixion. While he's there, he whispers a little prayer or two, one for the people he knows who are still alive, and another short one for the countless family and friends he and Dean have lost over the years.

The first hour is spent in silence, but Sam doesn't move, the waiting doesn't bother him. There's a confession here, he saw the signs the moment he drove past the church. A heavy sense of gloom hung around the place, making the atmosphere almost oppressive, something you could choke on if you inhaled a little to sharply. And this man, with his beer belly and his balding head, his lost gaze and shoulders that occasionally shake because he's holding desperately onto the floodgates, is the one creating this feeling. He has a weight on his chest, his shoulders, and it is destroying him the longer he sits there and ruminates over it. Sam wants to say something to edge along the process, but he doesn't, because he is patient and he knows how, sometimes, it pays off in the end.

Another half hour passes before the man speaks, and it's in a tone so hushed that Sam almost misses the beginning of his confession.

"Lord, please, you have to forgive me."

Sam looks away from the cross, and over to the man. Twice, as the man spoke, his voice cracked. The floodgate was beginning to break.

"I know it's a sin, but damn it, I had to do it. She's been suffering for so damn long, I just couldn't watch her do it anymore." He stops with a shuddering sob, hand going to his mouth. Tears roll down over his ruddy cheeks, over his beefy hands, and he wipes them away with the pad of his thumb. "It was her idea, y'know. I'd thought about it a few times, but I mean, I'd always be friggen horrified, disgusted with myself for even thinking about it, y'know? But then she brings it up herself. All casual-like, like we was havin' Sunday dinners the way we used to, with the kids, before the kids moved upstate, before she got sick, before the health insurance ran out and I lost my job when the mill closed.

"She told me it'd be easy to do, y'know? 'I'm here on bedrest,' Jill said to me. 'You and I both know, sugar, that it'd be easy for me to mix up my meds with something else. Sleeping pills and pain killers look awfully similar, and you know it.' Hearing those words come out of her mouth, Lord, I thought I was gonna drop dead right then and there, a heart attack or something. I think I prayed that I would-" Sam has a brief recollection of hearing that prayer, a faint little voice at the back of his mind a few nights ago, and he feels numb all over, "-but no dice. I didn't know what to do, Lord, I really didn't. How can you talk a dying woman out of dying? She told me she was ready to go, but the disease wasn't ready to let her. I thought about it for a day or two, sat by her bed and held her hand as she went through the motions like she does every day. Helped her eat a little something and pulled her hair back when it came back up an hour later. Watched her lie there, wracked with pain because it was to the point that the meds weren't helping her, not anymore.

"So, that night lying next to her with her shiverin' in my arms, I said yes, God save me, that I'd help her put herself out of her misery."

The man stops there, and says nothing for a long time. Sam considers his words, feeling sicker and sicker because he's been in that position once or twice. It was a rocky place to be, one that was more painful than anywhere or anything. Madison. Jo and Ellen. His words hit so close to home that it feels like a knife being stuck into his spine and twisted round and round and round, like a carnival ride, all over again.

Madison was wonderful. She was smart, funny, independent, beautiful. And far braver than he ever was, than he would ever be. In the end, he adored her because he didn't care what she was. They'd find a way to fix her, regardless of how hard it would be. In the end, she practically begged him to kill her. It was possibly the hardest thing he had ever done, one rung right below burying Dean in that field after Lilith's Hell Hound had made a snack out of him.

And Jo and Ellen. Just thinking about them, dead or alive, happy or terrified, is enough to kill him. He actually feels an ache in his heart just by bringing their names and their death to the front of his mind. Sacrificing themselves just so he and Dean could get away and get to Lucifer to pull a stunt that didn't even work in the end. After that incident, Sam hated himself for months on end, and he knew Dean felt the same, if not worse because he was the one who placed the detonator in Jo's tiny, deadly little hands. He was the one who gave her the ammo, he was the one with her blood on his clothing, on his hands, in his hair, and then on his lips, and the more Sam thinks about it, the more he finds himself coming to understand why, exactly, Dean still feels that smidgen of guilt, that smear on the surface of the mirror, about her and Ellen's deaths.

Wiping at his cheeks, Sam takes a shuddering breath and turns his focus back to the man. He is talking again, about how much he loved his wife. They would have been together forty-three years the coming fall. High school sweethearts who still loved each other just as much as they did when they first started dating. She was his rock, his safe haven. A harbour that he sought refuge in during a storm. And he, too, was her haven. Together, over the years, they had weathered many storms - financial ruin, the deaths of their parents, the death of the town they lived in, emotional humiliation. They had endured all of it together, and more, and they kept their heads high despite the still, choleraic waters at their feet. But this was a storm they could no longer endure, one that had been battering their doors and windows and home for so long that the foundation was cracking and the land giving way beneath their feet.

"I love her, Lord," whispers the man. As he says this, the heavy shroud covering the church seems to dissipate. He is nearing the end of his confession. "I've never loved no one else, you know that? And I never will. Not ever again."

Sam feels a hand on his shoulder and when he turns around, he finds Castiel standing behind him. No words are exchanged, and then in a flutter, as the man stands to leave the church, possibly for good, Sam finds himself seated in the driver's seat of the Impala. Castiel is beside him. For a moment, there is silence punctured only by their breathing. Pure, blessed, church-like silence. The world beyond the safe confines of the car remains an empty one. From his vantage point, and now that he's not focused on anything in particular, he sees a sprawl of graffiti across the boarded window front of what was once, apparently, a small shoe and TV repair place.

_**No more hope. Abandon ship. **_

It takes a moment to sink in, the words left behind by some jaded teenager or adult. Things could be different now, and that adult could be him. It was him, once. And then Sam breaks, pressing his forehead to the steering wheel and one hand going to cover his mouth, to muffle himself and the broken sounds he makes. He feels as though he's being ripped apart from the inside out.

Castiel places his hand on Sam's shoulder and gives it a compassionate squeeze. "You did well, Sam," sighs Cas. "That man's confession has been recorded, and God has found him innocent of any wrong-doing. You've done what you're supposed to do."

After a while the sobs subside and Sam sits back, using the palm of his hand to wipe his face clean of the tears.

"I can see why Dean hates taking confessions," Sam murmurs, blindly reaching forward and starting the car. She roars to life, settles into her signature purr, and he pulls away from the curb. "If I could never do that again, well, yeah. I wouldn't do it."

"No one likes taking confessions," Cas says. He looks gloomy, like the cloud that had been hanging over the church was now hovering over him like some kind of bird of prey. "But, regardless of their nature, they are necessary. They prevent souls who are unworthy of heaven from entering, but they also grant access to those who might have been sent elsewhere had their confession gone unheard."

_**Rule #29:**_

_Confessions are a necessary evil, and God _

_apologizes for the emotional trauma that may_

_occur, post-confession._


	5. Horseman

**In which Castiel has an engagement to attend and niceties are scarce. **

They were seated in the back of a diner in Norway, neither man capable of speaking the language with any real efficiency but able to understand the conversation surrounding them. Castiel had walked into the establishment with ease on his features and a fluttering illness in his belly, but the moment the man at his shoulder glided in behind him - and that's what he does, glides with the grace of a serial killer in Armani moving from one corpse to another - everything went mute. A hush befell the place as though all the occupants were immediately occupied with thoughts, considerations of impending doom. Like the Apocalypse was about to spring forth all over again, yet another break in the levee, like the world around them about to fall to shambles.

Death was his companion.

And he wore a smile.

Perhaps it was sickly ironic that an old radio overhead played that Skeeter Davis song, "The End of the World." Her voice sounded extra mournful in the grim afternoon. After a moment, that, too, fell silent. His companion flexed his hand around the silver knob at the top of his walking stick.

Castiel cleared his throat. Shortly after that, very gradually, conversation resumed in the diner, although it was much more forced than what it was before.

"Should we wait to be seated?"

Death looked down his nose at the angel. The last time they had met, it had not been on overly good terms, and the way they parted had been equally questionable. The ground they stood on shifted this way and that with each moment that passed, and the longer they stayed in silence, the jerkier the twisting of the Plains of Abraham became. "Death waits for no one," remarked the Horseman. He smirked, as though pleased with his little quip. "Especially not when it comes to taking a seat to dine. Follow me, would you?" An order, not a question for consideration; it was coldly polite.

Doing as he was bid, Castiel pulled his trench coat a little tighter over his shoulders and, casting a waitress an apologetic look, he followed Death through the diner to an inconspicuous little corner in the far back of the establishment. Away from prying eyes and curious ears it was, and Castiel found himself scanning for an emergency exit.

"Don't worry, Castiel, we are here for nothing more than a simple chat," hummed Death as he took his seat, hands folded on the table before them. His eyes pierced through the angel seated across from him and he arched a thin brow expectantly, mockingly. "Not unless you have something else planned?"

"Oh, no," said Castiel hastily, shaking his head. He sank back against the vinyl covering of the well-worn booth. "Just talking. Like you said."

Death smiled, skin pulled taut over his skeletal, sallow face. It was in that moment Castiel understood where the term 'death's head' originated, because he was looking at it. The diner felt a little colder and the angel felt faint for the briefest moment. It was the weirdest sensation he had ever experienced, like he had been submerged in a bath filled with ice. But the sensation was fleeting and it vanished as quickly as it had settled over him.

"_Excellent_," said Death, waving over a waitress. "We have much to discuss, as I am sure you are aware of. But, before that, let us order something to eat. My treat."

Castiel was unsure as to whether or not he should have felt threatened by that simple phrase, or if he should have felt honoured to be treated to lunch by Death himself. In the end it settled as a combination of both emotions, a feeling that resembled heartburn, or maybe a stomach ulcer.

"Well, I don't actually need to eat-"

"Oh, but I beg to _differ_."

Death smiled again, lips pin thin and taunting, and Castiel felt his vessel's stomach growl in a way that was almost painful. He felt an ache go straight through his diaphragm, stitches forming in either side and he curled in on himself a little. So, Death wasn't playing nice about this whole thing. He should have known, should have taken precautions. But that was his error, another penny in the jar of accidents he had started the moment he shook Crowley's dirty little hand. In the end he would choke on those pennies. The angel placed a hand on his raging, empty stomach and shot a contrite look in the Horseman's direction - he was still smiling, eyes stony and altogether unreadable.

When the waitress approached, the notebook in her hands shaking, she offered the men a smile and asked them what they would like to order.

"I have heard," said Death, "that this diner is home to the best _sodd _in all of Norway. Is this true?"

The waitress nodded, curly hair bouncing in its bun and a stray lock flopping against her freckled forehead. "Yes, yes it is. Would you like a bowl?"

"Of course I would." The corners of his mouth twitched upwards. The woman looked a little grayer around the edges. "And I shall have a chocolate milkshake alongside it. What do you wish to order, Castiel?"

Licking his lips, the angel shrugged. "A burger and fries would be nice," he murmured, unable to look up from his folded hands that lay upon the surface of the table.

When the waitress lingered a little too long at the table, the Horseman rapped his fingers upon the surface and she skittered away with a frightened look. The man's existence, his true form, was something that generally remained submerged beneath the surface of his human persona, a very unremarkable appearance until one took a good look at him and found themselves being sliced open on his jagged edges; his jutting collar bone, his dagger-like elbows, his bladed cheekbones. He was shrapnel in a human's guise. Anger, a finely tuned simmering sentiment of pure animalistic rage, was what made humans notice him, their dull senses becoming highly attuned to a supernatural ire. Anger was what brought out his inner reaper, was what brought out his mythical scythe that he used when slicing down his fields of wheat and barley. That scythe was what lay between the angel and the reaper, and that angel was what lay between Death and the diner. It was a heavy weight to hold, but Castiel stood his ground even though his wings trembled against his back and his stomach growled in a way that was very human.

No words were exchanged between the time the waitress left their table with their order and returned, fifteen minutes later, with their food. It was hot and steaming as it was placed before them. Death thanked the woman. Castiel nodded, barely able to make eye contact.

They did not speak as they ate. Castiel dared not, and Death seemed uninterested in his presence now that there was food lying before him. He seemed content to dine, as though it were his one remaining pleasure in his unnatural life, slowly consuming it as to savour all the flavours, each individual, delicate string of texture in the stew. All Castiel wanted to do was scarf down the burger and fries Jimmy's stomach was screaming for, but he did not want to make a holy show of himself, not before the man in front of him. So he ate slowly, trying in the same manner as Death to enjoy the food. It was good, but at the same time he found it bland. Human cuisine was something he would never understand.

(Although steaks were a good thing and there were times when his vessel craved the red meat, needed it. The occurrence was a rare one, but it did happen on occasion.)

Castiel was part way through finishing his fries when Death finally spoke.

"So, angels? _Them?_"

Castiel looked up, the food in his mouth feeling heavy on his tongue, as though he were trying to chew through lead. Swallowing with some minor difficulty, the hunger he had been forced into experiencing evaporating, Castiel settled back against the seat and licked his lips, catching some salt on his tongue and fighting the urge to make a face at the astringent taste of it.

"It was God's orders." The words took what felt like a year to form, and a decade to get out. His voice sounded hollow to his own ears, pitched a little higher than usual. "It had been in his plans for a long time, to give the Winchesters their Grace. You don't think they deserve it?"

Death shrugged. "Sam, perhaps, is some what emotionally capable of handling it," he mused. "But Dean? It is nigh a wonder that he has yet to accidentally smite an entire city, the pig-headed, insignificant little prick that he is. I always knew he would be a thorn in my side ever since his conception, I just never realized how much so."

At this Castiel sat a little straighter in his seat, wings tensing and squaring his shoulders. He narrowed his gaze, fingers curling so that he held his hands as loose fists. "Who am I to defy a directly spoken order from my Father?"

"The first one in years, and that's what it is," Death sighed, shaking his head. "I don't quite care that the Lord works in mysterious ways, because in the end, he is mine, too, but what I _do_ care about is the kind of idiots he's entrusting power of a holy kind to. They are now, in my books, holy terrors with wings whom I can no longer look forward to the pleasure of reaping. I am terribly cross, as I'm sure you've noticed."

"Perhaps I shall apologize on God's behalf for inconveniencing you so terribly," said Castiel, voice low and gravely. He tried, oh God did he ever, to reign in his flaring temper, but found his efforts were getting him absolutely nowhere. "Regardless of you being _privy_ or not to his intentions, there are certain things my Father wishes to see fulfilled without question or hindrance. This is one of those things, whether you choose to accept it, _Death._"

Bristling and straightening, the already-hushed sounds of the diner fading away altogether and leaving them in a world that was immersed in a nuclear silence, Death's eyes narrowed and he looked irate beneath that sullen mask of his. Something glinted in his eyes that was akin to murder, the longing to pluck each individual feather from his wings. "Is that _so _Castiel?" he hissed, sneering. Fingers twitched in the direction of his cane, the scythe that lay upon the table as a soft, whispery reminder of who he was and everything he meant, and Castiel's wings spread, the very tips of his primary feathers scraping the wall. "My, my, how _bold_ of Him. Perhaps God has not abandoned this pathetic universe after all, but wishes to see it set ablaze by the hands of his favourite pets and their little angel _bitch. _If you don't mind, I think I might watch the show for a bit longer after all."

In the distance, thunder rolled across the boreal forests, shaking nature to its core.

"The works of His hands are verity and judgement," snarled Castiel, standing. This discussion, far from over, was going to have to take place some other time. In a place where the risk for collateral damage was not the first and foremost risk. "All His commandments are sure."

Death clapped his hands slowly, smirking, ring glinting beneath the lights of the diner that was slowly being vacated. The only people who remained were the employees, and they had migrated to the back kitchens to partake in a prayer circle for anxious chain smokers and reformed alcoholics prepared to break out the bottle of whiskey.

"Psalm 111:7," crowed the reaper, retrieving his cane and standing as well. "Very astute of you, angel. This mistake of yours and God's, however, is something we'll leave to discuss for another time. I'm sure you appreciate the choice I'm making, as will the people in this diner."

The corner of Castiel's mouth twitched, but he said nothing.

Death looked grim as he adjusted his jacket, brushing off the sleeves. He threw some currency onto the table; the bill and a small tip. "Mark my words," he said, voice so low that Castiel almost missed it. "The Lord has made a grave mistake in bestowing Grace upon those faithless heathens. And it is a mistake He will come to regret."

"They have more faith than you may realize," snapped Castiel.

Death paused in the middle of smoothing the front of his coat, looking up slowly and out across the vacant diner. Music played, and this time it was Johnny Cash's song, "Hurt". The Horseman looked thoughtful as he ruminated over Castiel's proclamation of the Holy Terrors having faith. A silly notion; Sam was the one with faith, regardless of how much it dwindled, but Dean, however, was another story. Dean had as much faith as someone who had renounced everything, including their own humanity. He smirked and shook his head, pointing in Castiel's direction with the silver knob atop his cane. "The pleasure I will feel upon reaping their unworthy souls when God comes to terms with His colossal error," said Death in a measured tone, flat and emotionless, "will border on ecstasy. And I will make sure you are in attendance at their reaping, Castiel. I promise."

Then he was gone, not even a whisper to announce his ghostly departure, leaving Castiel to stand alone in the vacant diner, wings sagging as much as his shoulders did. He was confident, however, that there was no truth behind Death's icy promise. God had no reason to regret bestowing Grace upon Sam and Dean. They were making their new family proud; they were good at what they were doing, and getting better. No, God would never find a reason to regret giving them their Grace.

And it was something Castiel would make sure of, whether or not it was the last thing he had the pleasure of doing.


End file.
